Mrs. Blake said that it was impossible that Lottie could be so lost to all sense of propriety, so wicked, so unwomanly—
The girl stood opposite, slim, white and resolute. Her slender hands hung loosely clasped before her and a fierce spark burned in her eyes.
"Oh, that's impossible too, is it?" she said quietly. "We'll see."
Mrs. Blake quailed, but murmured something about her "authority."
"Oh yes," was the calm reply. "You might lock me up. Try it: I think I should get out. Make a fuss and ruin Horace and me. That you can do, but keep us apart you can't."
"You don't know, you can't know, what it is you talk of doing, or you couldn't stand there without blushing."
"Very likely not," said Lottie. "But since I know enough to do it—"
"You are a wicked, wilful child."
"Wicked? Perhaps. Yes, I think I am wicked. I'm a child, I know. Help me, mother, for I love him!"
The argument was prolonged, but the end could not be doubtful. Mrs. Blake could scold and bluster, but Lottie was determined. The mother was in bondage to Mrs. Grundy: the daughter played the trump card of her utter recklessness and won the game.